This Land Is My Land
by Sakura Tsukikage
Summary: America thinks he's always been tough.  Well, maybe not always.  A look at American history-from America's perspective.


Title: This Land is My Land  
Author: **sakuratsukikage**  
Rating: PG for language and mentions of general American obtuseness of the somewhat non-PC variety.  
Characters/Pairings: America, mentions of England and others. No pairings.  
Warnings: Language, American exceptionalism, assorted historical situations.  
Summary: America thinks he's always been tough. A look at American history-from America's perspective.  
Disclaimer: None of them are mine.  
Notes: This is extremely America-centric, mainly because it's from America's perspective, and well, he's America. I want to reiterate that the voice in this story is just that, a narrative voice, and does not reflect my own personal political views-it's my honest attempt at portraying what I believe to be a firm strain of individualism and self-focused independence throughout the history of the United States as a part of the character of Hetalia's America. The title is from Woody Guthrie's folk song, "This Land is Your Land."

**This Land is My Land**

If you asked America, he was one tough cookie. And not just because he was a superpower, or whatever, though that was pretty goddamn awesome all on its own.

He hadn't always been tough, of course. When he'd been little, he'd gotten lonely easily, been a little bit clingy and a helluva crybaby. It still embarrassed him—or made him blush, anyway, 'cause he was too heroic to be embarrassed, really, but still—to remember England taking him firmly by the chin, wiping away his tears and saying, firmly, "America, men don't cry."

But then England had left him on his own all the time. And well, what else was he gonna do? He'd learned to survive all on his own, and to enjoy the company of his people while he was doing it. He'd learned how to shoot and hunt and trap and tan a hide, all of it by himself. Okay, so England had first taught him how to shoot, but he sure as hell hadn't taught America how to aim. America had learned that all on his own, standing outside and shooting squirrels one by one and telling himself that men didn't cry over something like killing animals (even as the tears slowly dripped down his face, the wind turning them as cold as ice against his skin). Afterward he'd rubbed his eyes and apologized to the squirrels like the people who'd come before him had, and he'd eaten them, because even though squirrels tasted nasty, it was the least he could do to give their deaths some more purpose than target practice. He'd gotten used to either living in ragged clothes or clumsily patching them himself, to fixing his own boots and making his own candles and cooking for himself and chopping his own wood and bringing his people who needed something extra anything he could spare (and sometimes things he couldn't, because he was tough and he wasn't gonna die just because he went hungry until his stomach was cramping with it).

So whenever England came back, it started getting weird. And England started looking at him weirdly, like he'd been expecting someone different, not a rough and tumble colonist with badly patched clothing who swore like a New England sailor and shot like a sharpshooter, even if he wasn't all that big yet. And so for a while America tried to be like how he thought England probably wanted him to be, to be all proper and shit, and well, he couldn't pull it off for anything. And that started to make him angry, because hell, he was _America_, not England, and England should just get used to that, and let him be the way he was.

That thought stuck with him, festered in him, like a wound going bad, and it _was_ like that, because after a while it was like a scab he couldn't leave alone, and he kept going back to it, picking at it. And his people were getting angrier and angrier, and England kept asking for things like America would just _agree_ and damn it, it wasn't fair. If he was going to tax America like he was doing, the least he could do was treat him like he had something to say about it, but whenever America said that, England would just say that he needed that money to protect his colonies, and that America wouldn't understand.

And well, fuck that.

But even though America was really damn angry, when he first started to rebel he realized he wasn't as tough as he'd thought, because whenever he thought about what he was doing, and no matter how angry he was—and he was, he was really damn angry, so angry and resentful it made him want to scream and . . . well, hit something—it kind of made him want to cry.

It was pathetic, but there you had it. And at Lexington, and Concord, he'd felt so sick to his stomach that afterward he'd thrown up for about an hour straight, or it had felt like it, anyway.

But he wasn't about to give up. No matter what. And he didn't want his people to know how torn and sick and upset it made him feel, because he was sure it'd be bad for what General Washington and the others called morale, and he _did_ want to show England what was what, he really did.

So he stuck it out, even though his boots wore out and his feet were bleeding in the snow at Valley Forge, even though he was hungry and miserable and tired and . . . well, it wasn't a fun time. But he'd made it. He'd made it through, through all of it, all the way to Yorktown, and he'd . . . he'd gotten through that, too. And he'd won, and he'd had everything he'd been fighting for.

But not everything he'd wanted. And that was when he found out that just because you won . . . it didn't mean you'd get everything you wanted. Like England not hating his guts, for example. That would've been nice. But, oh well. He had himself. He had his independence. That was just going to have to be enough. And it was. He told himself that, and it was true.

But damn, it wasn't easy. But America gritted his teeth and thought about freedom, about being _himself_, on his own, an individual, independent. And it was worth it. It really was.

And he thought maybe he'd gotten a little bit tougher, after all that. And for a while, he wasn't thinking about it, because there was too much else for him to think about. Being his own country was hard work, and it took up all his attention for a long time. And the others were neat and all, but he kept getting the impression they kind of thought he was a joke, a stupid kid pretending to be an adult. Which pissed him off. So he kept to himself, because he'd show them, damn it, he would.

He was going to be great. He was _meant_ to be great. And they were just going to find out how great he could be.

But he learned something, during those years where he was just thinking about himself, and his own people. He learned that his people, his country, all of them, were beautiful and strong and great, and that he had that strength, that strength he'd never been sure whether he had or not. And as time passed he found himself blinking back humiliating tears less, surreptitiously wiping his eyes with his arm less, found his hands growing calluses as he worked and traveled and logged and farmed and roped cows and rode and his arms and back growing stronger and stronger, and one day he looked in a cloudy, scratched saloon mirror and barely recognized himself, because damn it all if he weren't tall, and broad across the shoulders, too, with a lot of muscle and bulk he sure as hell didn't remember from the last time he'd looked in a mirror. His skin was warm with a golden tan, and the lines of his face weren't as soft as he remembered them being, but stronger, more defined. America leaned in to peer at himself in the mirror, pulling off his glasses as he did, and gingerly clapped one hand to the muscle of his shoulder. When had that gotten there? Damn, he was _big_. And _tall_. And well, huh, that was a helluva thing. He could see his own sheepish grin in the mirror as he slid Texas back on.

The feeling of strength didn't last. First came Kansas, and then all the rest of it, and before too long America was a mess, just all over, and he fought to hold it together, he did, but he was soaking his pillow with tears every night. And it was pathetic, but okay, this time he didn't _need_ anybody's help, if they weren't going to give it. Or only wanted to give it with a million strings attached. He'd . . . he'd get through this, one way or another, no matter what. So he gritted his teeth and fought his way through it, just . . . hoping he'd make it. That this wasn't the end of him, because he hadn't been as awesome as . . . as he wanted to be yet. As he knew he could be.

But damn, it hurt. And it was strange, different, the feeling of fighting his own people . . . it was so different from fighting England had been, or Canada, or . . . anyone else. That had hurt too, but it had been different than this was. This made him feel hurt and sick and aching all the time—all the time. It never stopped. He wasn't sure if he could take it, but it wasn't really like he had a choice. He couldn't end the war so easily when it was inside himself, he couldn't get away from it—he just had to get through it, he guessed. But you know, easier said than done.

America still didn't like to look back on that time. It had been terrible, like being torn apart from the inside—and with the others, watching, he could _feel_ them, watching him, just _waiting_ for him to fall apart—but then it had been over, and the South, they'd still needed him. Wanted him. And he'd still been himself, and everything, and then, slowly, things had started to feel like they were knitting back together inside him, and things had been okay, and then better than okay, they'd been good again, and he'd been one person (one nation, under God), and strong, and the wounds had started to scab over, though even now he still had a scar or two. But heroes all had scars, to prove how tough they were. And America thought those scars did prove something.

So he went out west again, and damn if he didn't feel different. Stronger. Tougher. And he worked, and he kept working, all on his own, with his people, and then there were factories, industries, and suddenly there was money, and he was rich, and people were coming, coming to him from all over the world, new people, and people had stopped looking at him like he was a stupid kid—even though they still seemed like they thought he was young and dumb there was something like a kind of respect in their eyes, and it was heady and addictive. And America built the railroad, and he built factories, and ships, and then England was acting like maybe he didn't hate him quite as much again, which was just as heady as the rest of it, and America felt _great_. It wasn't all perfect, of course, he had a lot to work out, to regulate, but he was moving forward all the time, and then England supported him against Spain, and people started to _listen_ when he talked.

But the thing was, he'd worked so damn hard to get there. All on his own, too. He'd been there with his people every step of the way, plowing the fields, laying railroad ties, working in the factories, ranching and riding out west. And by that point—well, people were coming to him. _I lift my lamp beside the golden door._ And if people wanted to see him, well, he wasn't about to close that door. It was always gonna be open. But he gotten where he was on his own. He didn't need anyone else to stay there.

He never would.

So if they wanted him, they wanted him the way he was. He wasn't about to change to please any of them.

But it wasn't like he could just _ignore_ what was going on in Europe, and when the fighting broke out . . . and they asked him to come. They asked _him_ to come and fight. It wasn't any of his business, but why not, he figured?

They needed his help. His. So he went, and he helped, and since they didn't feel like listening to him when it was all over, he came right back home again. And swore off liquor, but that was his business. And he didn't do as good a job kicking the booze habit as he'd hoped, but, well, that was his business too (and those damn Italians didn't make it any easier, and his stupid brother was a helluva enabler, too, while he was at it).

But then everything fell apart. And people—the others, his own people—they blamed him for it. And maybe it was his fault. He'd gotten where he was on his own, after all. Couldn't blame anybody else. So he tightened his belt and dragged himself back up again and went out to work, even though he was hungry and sick, and his head hurt and spun around in circles no matter how hard he tried to make it stop. And that was the thing. America faced his problems on his own. Always had. So he would do that here, too. But it was hard. Again he realized that he wasn't as tough as he'd thought. He was scared all the time, worried, frightened, down. Depressed. Whenever he stopped to think he'd feel all his strength leaching out of him. He felt tired all the time.

But it didn't matter. He couldn't let that stop him. Not now. Not when he'd come this far. He was the good ol' US of A, and he stood on his own two feet, and he did it with style. And if that meant putting his back into hard work all over again, and going without like his people were, well, then that's just what he'd do. So he did it, learned to be a new kind of tough. And he let the rest of the world worry about the rest of the world for a spell.

It didn't stick. Before he knew it, some seriously wacky shit was going down in Europe—couldn't leave 'em alone for five minutes, Christ—and England, _England_, was in trouble, and he needed America. _Needed_ him (like he'd never done before). And then Japan started losing his shit, and America felt like he was the only sane one left when everyone else had lost their marbles and then some.

He was looking for an excuse to join in; he'd admit to it. He wanted to help, but he didn't want them to think he'd jump for them all whenever they said heel, damn it all. So he waited, and then Japan fucking stabbed him in the back, and that was it, son, that was all the excuse he needed.

So he came in and saved the day like a hero. Because that's what he was. And heroes always came in and saved the day. Because he was strong, and tough, strong enough to do that kind of thing, to fight, and win, for everyone, for the whole world, for freedom and democracy and _what was right_ and what he believed in.

That was the thing. He was strong and tough, all on his own. He'd made it without any help from anyone. So when the others looked at him like he was running off his mouth again without knowing what he was talking about, at meetings, when they rolled their eyes or acted like he was just an overgrown kid—well, he didn't have to care. Because he'd made it on his own. And what they thought?

Didn't really matter.

It wasn't that he didn't care, because, well, he did. He cared. And he wanted to be there, to be involved, to listen—now he did, he really did, because that was what heroes did, and he was strong, he was the strongest, so he was supposed to help.

But he knew he was tough, whatever they all thought. He was America, land of the free and the home of the brave. And he didn't really need anyone else. Because he was independent, free—he was who he was. To the very end.

And beyond.

And he knew he didn't know everything. Not yet. He wasn't certain of everything. But he'd figure it out. He knew he would.

Stuff started to get complicated around him, and that was around the time America realized that being a superpower was no easy job. He felt like England would probably say "I told you so, you stupid git," or something along those lines. (Which he did, and which America brushed off, or tried to.) And then there was Russia, or the USSR, really, which was a headache and a half, and America was going to bed every damn night jittery and tense for a while, it felt like. But he thought, hey. Freedom, justice, liberty. Can't let the team down, hot stuff; you're the star player now (and a ton of this shit is your fault anyway). And so he kept going. Kept going through Vietnam and marches on Washington and I have a dream and got high on weed at Woodstock and all he needed was love—except it wasn't—and he heard they wanted a revolution, and damn if he didn't want them to tear down that fucking wall, and there was Israel and the Middle East and there was always _something_ (and giant robots to combat global warming) and maybe he was getting the hang of this and maybe not but he couldn't stop now.

And then it was like he woke up one morning and the USSR was gone, and Russia was shaking his hand in its place (and looking fucking awful, by the way). And America was just standing there, for a few seconds, maybe, but it felt like forever, and wondering what the hell came next.

Giant robots?

The answer wasn't anything like he'd expected. He'd dreamed, you know. Just like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., he'd dreamed of peace and justice and tolerance.

He got a wake-up call of planes flying into the World Trade Center and death, and anger, and hatred, people hating him, and nothing he did was _right_, and he was an American idiot, and everyone was angry, and the world was changing, and was he changing, too, or was he just staying the same, but he was sure pissing everyone off, and it was like every other word out of his mouth made someone angry and it hadn't always been like this, right? People hadn't always hated him like this, right?

But he was the United States of America, and he was tough, and he was . . . himself (one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all), so he sucked it up and he kept on going. Because he could handle it, and wherever the world was going to go—well, he wasn't about to lie back and take his hands off the wheel. Wasn't his style, no way no how. Even if he started feeling sick—a case of the sniffles, he told himself, even when he was losing his lunch every day, and not even MacDonald's made him feel any better—it'd pass; he'd handle it.

And then there was a change, a big one, and he started to feel better. Politics were as much as a headache as ever, but he got a new shot of hope—and people were listening to him again. And he told himself, America, you try listening to them a little, but don't let on too much. And he wasn't ever sure what he should do, or what anyone should do, but he was going to do the right thing, he knew that much.

_E pluribus unum_.

And damn if that one wasn't a helluva guy. He could take whatever the future held.

Because he was tough—he was the United States of America, after all. And whatever was coming, he could handle it.


End file.
